


Raspberry Kisses

by ProseApothecary



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Fluff and Angst with a Happy Ending, High School, Homophobia (mostly internalised), M/M, Practice Kissing, no pennywise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22571113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: It starts on a humid Summer evening. Water scattered through the air like flour through a sieve. The two of them curled towards each other in Eddie’s bed, too warm for sheets.It’s late enough that conversation has descended into non-sequiturs and stark fragile truths, and Eddie, in a minute of silence, says “I don’t think I’m ever going to be kissed.”He doesn’t mean to make it sound so tragic. It’s not that he’s desperate to kiss anyone. The opposite, actually. Can’t join in boys’ conversations about girls without lying, and it makes a question float at the top of his mind, like a leaf on water. What’s wrong with me? Beyond the asthma and allergies, and sensitive skin, and brittle bones. Something deeper. Something untreatable. Undiagnosable, maybe.Maybe, if he’d said all of that out loud, Richie wouldn’t have kissed him.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 35
Kudos: 299





	1. Chapter 1

It starts on a humid Summer evening. Water scattered through the air like flour through a sieve. The two of them curled towards each other in Eddie’s bed, too warm for sheets.

It’s late enough that conversation has descended into non-sequiturs and stark fragile truths, and Eddie, in a minute of silence, says “I don’t think I’m ever going to be kissed.”

He doesn’t mean to make it sound so tragic. It’s not that he’s desperate to kiss anyone. The opposite, actually. Can’t join in boys’ conversations about girls without lying, and it makes a question float at the top of his mind, like a leaf on water. _What’s wrong with me?_ Beyond the asthma and allergies, and sensitive skin, and brittle bones. Something deeper. Something untreatable. Undiagnosable, maybe.

Maybe, if he’d said all of that out loud, Richie wouldn’t have kissed him.

But he didn’t. And Richie’s lips are pressed against his in a second. And off just as quickly.

Eddie’s heart is beating way too fast, and he wants to tell Richie to get his trashmouth the hell away and not make stupid fucking jokes.

But Richie doesn’t look like he’s joking. He looks like he’s trying to smile, maybe, but the upturn of his mouth keeps getting swept away.

And Eddie feels totally lost.

“Rich,” he starts. “I’m not…”

“No,” Richie says quickly, before he can get the word out. “Me neither. But…now we’ve gotten the first out of the way. It’s just practice. Like…you do warm-ups, don’t you? Before you race?”

Eddie pauses. It’s not the worst idea Richie’s ever had. Eddie feels lost whenever he sees couples fall into each other, like it’s instinctual. It’s not instinctual. It’s planning and preparing. It’s watching old movies, learning the rules: _close your eyes, put your hand on her cheek. Pray that she brushes her teeth._ Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want to kiss anyone. Why no one wants to kiss him. Maybe if he practiced, he could get used to the idea. Be, _God forbid_ , suave.

“Ok,” Eddie says. “Let’s do it.”

Richie blinks at him. “What?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Practice, dipshit.”

Something twists in Richie’s expression, before his face goes slack again. “Oh. Ok.”

Richie doesn’t initiate, which is stupid, because it was his idea in the first place. Just lies there, big bug eyes looking at Eddie.

Eddie sighs, and leans in, presses his lips against Richie’s. His hand curls around Richie’s collar, and he realises, suddenly, that it’s supposed to be on the cheek, but Richie doesn’t say anything, and Eddie thinks maybe it’s an acceptable alternative. That’s the problem with romance, everything’s acceptable until it’s not, and suddenly you realise you’ve accidentally told a girl that cold sores are just mouth herpes, and ruined everyone’s day.

Richie doesn’t have cold sores, _thank Christ_. His lips are a little wet. Which should be gross, but Eddie fingers it’s his own spit, which is fine, really. They’re also chapped. Which is less fine, because if the skin broke he could get an infection, probably.

Eddie should really buy him a chapstick. It might make his kisses a little softer, too.

Otherwise, he’s kind of falling into it. He thinks he might actually be doing ok, except that Richie doesn’t lean into the kiss, and when Eddie pulls back, his expression is blank.

He smiles weakly and says “I’m gonna try to get some sleep,” twisting to face the other way, curled up with his elbows touching, hands clasped under his head.

“Ok,” Eddie says, trying not to panic. “Night.” He’s definitely screwed something up. He’s probably too shit at kissing to even consider practicing with. _Fuck._

“Night,” says Richie, with half a voice.

_Night,_ Eddie tells himself firmly. And doesn’t sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Weeks pass without mention of that night. But at least they’re back to normal. Ish.

Eddie slides a chapstick towards Richie one history class. Not under the assumption that more kissing is in their future. He’s certain it isn’t. Only because he’d been seeing Richie flick his tongue over his lips whenever he made a point, sheen drying off in seconds, leaving them dryer than the crisp leaves out the window, the tiny gashes in the skin clearer than ever, and it bothered him. Intensely.

So he slides over the chapstick, not really thinking about the message it sends, but Richie gives him this odd sort of look, and Eddie flushes and splutters something about _making sure you don’t bleed all over my textbook._

Richie picks it up and looks at the packaging. “Raspberry-flavoured.”

Eddie rolls his eyes pre-emptively. Waits for a joke about Avon Ladies. But Richie just says, “I thought you were allergic.”

“Oh.” Eddie says. “It’s fake. So I’m allowed.”

Richie gives him another strange look, and Eddie is just about to ask why he’s being so fucking weird, when Richie takes the cap off and slides it over the matching half-moons of his lips.

The whole interaction has been so fucking bizarre that Eddie gets this nervous energy in his fingers, capping and uncapping his pen.

Richie’s about to slide it back when Eddie stops him. “Keep it,” he says. “I don’t know where your mouth’s been.”

Which is a lie, obviously, and one that makes Eddie cringe as soon as he says it, waiting for Richie to call him out.

But Richie just says, “Ask your mother,” and smacks his lips at Eddie.

As per normal. Which is good. Eddie needs them to be normal. It’s so much more important than kissing, or girls.

Or anything, really.

Eddie doubles his commitment to the track team. It helps him get out of his head, stop stressing about these things.

His mother doesn’t like it.

But he’s coming to realise there’s not a lot she does like. Soap operas from the 1970s and the smell of bergamot, and Eddie, but only when he’s doing what she wants. And a tiny, guilty part of his brain thinks that maybe the only things that belong to him are things she doesn’t approve of. That as soon as she wants something for him, the reins slip from Eddie’s hands and fall into hers.

So he runs.


	3. Chapter 3

The athletics carnival is on a cool Winter’s day.

But that’s not the only reason Eddie regrets the red gym shorts he picked out. Every so often, Richie insists on starting a game of “Duck, Duck, Goosebumps” with the rest of the Losers that inevitably results in him slapping Eddie’s freezing thighs. 

“It’s supposed to be a fucking pat on the head,” Eddie says, as Richie runs lamely around their little grassy circle and yells “Chase me, Eddie.”

“I’m not going to use up all my energy chasing you before I have to race, fuckwit.”

“Don’t you do warm-ups?” Richie asks, and Eddie whips his head round to glare at him. But Richie just looks confused, and Eddie realises, cheeks burning, that apparently only he associates the words with their first kiss.

“I’m supposed to focus,” Eddie mumbles, pulling up his knees and dipping his head between them. Waits for the pink to die down.

He comes third in the 100 metres race, and Richie whoops for him, loudly, and it’s humiliating, and Eddie kind of loves it.

Richie insists they celebrate, but everyone’s tired from competing, and so Richie insists they buy party poppers, at least.

He drags Eddie back to his room that evening, and pops the final popper in his face.

“Those are _explosives_ , jackass,” Eddie says, sitting on the bed to detangle himself from all the streamers.

Richie sits next to him, bats Eddie’s hands away and makes the streamers into a ring around his neck. “Your medal, sir.”

Eddie smiles, shaking his head, but he runs a hand over the laurel.

“I know it’s just a stupid race,” he says quietly. “But I feel like-I feel like maybe this is the first thing I’ve done on my own.”

And Richie smiles at him in this bittersweet way that makes his head ache, and suddenly there’s a hand on his neck and rough lips against his. And Eddie’s thoughts get as tangled as the streamers surrounding him, and he can’t pull apart _Richie_ and _victory_.

Richie pulls back, glancing at Eddie for a second before he looks away. He chews on his lip. _This is why they get chapped, asshole,_ Eddie thinks, but he can’t stop the buoyant feeling inside.

A few seconds pass, and Eddie is just about to say something, even though he doesn’t know what, when Richie opens his mouth. “Gotta practice surprise kisses. In case you marry a ninja.”

Eddie feels his guts twist, sharp and painful. Which doesn’t make sense, because he’s been wanting to practice again for weeks. He thinks it must be from the sprint. His mother never thought he had the constitution for it.

“I think all my organs are shutting down,” he says, in case Richie needs something to tell the paramedics.

“I’m not surprised,” Richie says, seemingly unconcerned. “You were a fucking tornado out there,” He smiles, and the pain feels a little lighter, and Eddie thinks he might not die of stitch-related injuries after all.

“A tornado?” Eddie asks. “Or a ninja?” And he rapidly tackles Richie, pushing him against the bedspread.

“You need to be prepared too,” he says, narrowly avoiding kneeing Richie in the hip as he gains purchase on the duvet, shifts them both upwards. Then he leans down and kisses Richie. _Hand on cheek, this time. He’s not making the same mistake twice._

He pulls back, watching the way kissing turns Richie’s lips plummy.

Richie’s quiet, but not like the first time. He’s looking up at Eddie with this hazy kind of smile.

So Eddie leans down again. His lips are still rough. Clearly he hasn’t been using the chapstick. Eddie thinks maybe they’d bleed, if he bit them. Maybe that would teach Richie a lesson.

They don’t. But Richie breathes in, sharply, and Eddie can feel his hips shift underneath him.

“Eddie,” he says. “Eds.”

It’s not like he needs an excuse. He’s never going to learn how to kiss properly if he doesn’t try new things. But Richie’s looking at him like he might need an excuse.

“In case you marry a vampire,” Eddie says, rolling onto his back beside Richie.

Eddie hears Richie breathe out this shaky laugh.

But he doesn’t look over. Just grabs one of Richie’s comics, and starts reading.


	4. Chapter 4

Winter comes and goes. Richie, who has always been a contrarian, gets sick in the middle of Spring.

Eddie starts to worry about him by the second day he’s off school, so he collects the homework, and a pile of his notes, and goes over to the Toziers’.

Maggie sends him up with a smile and a ruffle of his hair. Eddie likes her. Richie doesn’t always. “It’s like I’m the second-favourite only child,” he’d told Eddie once, before ricocheting into an impression of Eddie’s mother. But Eddie sees that Maggie smiles whenever Richie smiles, and he wonders what it would be like to have a parent who doesn’t panic when you’re happy.

Richie gives him a lopsided grin when he walks in. “Dr K! My favourite quack.”

Eddie rolls his eyes but puts the pile of schoolwork on the bedside table, and kneels on the bed in front of Richie. It doesn’t look like he has a cold. It doesn’t look like he has anything, which makes Eddie tense. It’s the unseen illnesses that are the really deadly ones.

“Hey,” he says, poking Richie’s shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You need to work on your bedside manner.”

If Richie’s not going to tell him, he’s just going to have to do his own investigation. Eddie brushes his fringe back and lays his palm against the skin.

“Temperature’s fine.”

“I know my temperature’s fine,” Richie says, ducking out from under his palm.

“Then what’s wrong with you?” asks Eddie, with increasing frustration. He goes to hold his finger against Richie’s pulse.

“Nothing!” His hand jerks away.

Richie has a hundred different voices. This isn’t one of them.

Eddie blinks. “Hey. I didn’t-”

“I know,” Richie says, looking at his hands now. “Sorry.”

“Um,” Eddie says. “You can tell me if it’s something embarrassing. Like lice. I promise I won’t tell the others. I mean, I wish you’d told me to wear a shower cap, but-”

Richie’s hands abruptly slide up under his glasses.

“…Rich?” Eddie puts a hand on his shaking shoulder, panicking slightly. “It’s not a big deal honestly, you just need like, a comb, and half an hour. And I can buy you the comb.”

Richie lets out a breathy laugh. “It’s not fucking lice.” He moves his hands away and Eddie can see spidery wet lashes, and red webs pooling at the corners of his eyes.

Eddie’s in a full panic now. It could be cancer, or heart disease, or AIDS. Eddie read all about people getting AIDS from bus seats, and splinters and restaurant food and-

“There’s graffiti about me,” Richie says. “All over the bleachers. I thought I’d wait it out until they clean it off.”

Eddie deflates, caught between confusion and relief and annoyance.

“There’s always graffiti.”

“Thanks,” says Richie, “that really helps.”

“I’m just saying,” Eddie continues, “it’s a dumb reason to throw away your education.”

“Ok, Professor Kaspbrak.”

Eddie stares at Richie, splotchy cheeks and darting eyes, and tries to figure him out.

“Thanks for the homework,” Richie says. “You don’t have to stay.”

Eddie’s not going to be kicked out that easily. “I brought comics,” he says, and reaches over to get them. He picks out an X-Men one and shuffles in next to Richie to read it.

Richie doesn’t look particularly thrilled, but he doesn’t kick Eddie out.

Eddie attempts to read the same page 4 times, then gives up on paying attention, and switches to just flipping the pages at regular intervals.

It’s quiet, and Eddie thinks maybe it worked to calm Richie down. Until he hears quiet snuffling and turns to look, and _oh, fuck,_ it looks like Richie’s been silently crying for a while now.

And Eddie doesn’t know what to _do_ , because he barely understands what’s wrong, and probably Bev, or Stan, or anyone else would be better in this situation. But there’s one thing him and Richie have that they don’t, and Eddie barely thinks it through before his lips are touching Richie’s cheek, tasting salt. Then the corner of his mouth.

“Eddie,” Richie says, soft and shaky. “Don’t. Please.”

Eddie pulls back, taut. _If Richie thinks he’s doing this to practice_ … _That he’s chosen now, of all times-_

“I wasn’t-” he starts, panicky, “I just thought it might help. Somehow.”

“So did I,” says Richie, with a hoarse, bitter laugh. “Volunteer your body for science. Help a closet case. God, this whole thing was pathetic.”

_Pathetic._

_Pathetic, pitiable, clingy closet case._

Eddie feels his eyes and cheeks burn with the same hot shame. Runs through the year in his head, from Richie’s point of view, and can suddenly see himself crystal-clear. _Kiss me Richie, no one else will. Kiss me Richie, once isn’t enough. Kiss me Richie, I did something right._

But anger shadows shame, as it always does for Eddie.

Richie didn’t have to do a fucking thing. He didn’t have to fuck with Eddie’s head for a year. He wants to tell him so, wants the last word, but he knows words can’t come without tears.

Instead, he scrambles off the bed, and out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

Bill’s hosting a movie night on Monday. Eddie knows he won’t be able to register a single scene, but he’s going all the same. Just to make it clear he can.

He’s not fucking isolating himself. The Losers are his friends, too. If Richie doesn’t want him around, he can just fucking leave. He’s not going to be the one who mopes at home, proving Richie right.

Bill, Stan and Mike sit on the couch. Bev and Ben grab the armchairs.

He sits on the floor, centimetres from the screen. Where no one will touch him. He’s decided he doesn’t like being touched.

It seems, for a blissful moment, like Richie isn’t coming.

Until the door slams open.

“You’re late, Tozier,” Bev says.

“Eddie’s mother is a demanding woman,” Richie replies.

Eddie doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a response, but Stan says “Eddie? Did you go into a fugue state for a second there?” and Eddie doesn’t want this to become a fucking _thing_ , so he gives the default “Fuck off, Trashmouth.”

He still doesn’t look.

But, from the squeals and protestations, he thinks Richie’s squeezed between Bill and Stan.

It’s confirmed halfway through the movie, when Bill pauses it to grab drinks for people.

Eddie turns around to see Bev downing a cup of cola in 3 seconds flat.

He wrinkles his nose. “Good luck keeping your teeth past age 30. Haven’t you seen those videos of people putting chalk in coke? It fucking dissolves.”

“No!” Richie screeches, clutching at his heart. “Not my beautiful chalk teeth.”

It’s hard not to look at him, when he’s being so fucking _much_ , but Eddie doesn’t react, at least.

“My mum says soda water’s good for digestion,” Richie says. “So cola is basically like…a panacea.” He sits next to Eddie, _what the fuck is his game,_ and holds out his cup. “Come on, Eds. Maybe it’ll dissolve the stick up your ass.”

There’s scattered laughter from the other Losers.

Eddie levels his gaze at Richie. “Don’t fucking push me.”

He’s said it a thousand times, but Richie hears something in his quiet tone, goes pale and darts his eyes away.

“Bill,” he says, with too much bravado, crawling back to the couch. “Are those Tootsie Pops? You’re truly the snack king. Hand me one of those and I’ll give you my daughter’s hand in marriage. Fuck it, I’ll give you my hand in marriage.”

“Keep it,” Bill says. “I don’t know where it’s been.”

Richie laughs a little too loudly.

Eddie tries not to feel guilty. It’s not like he was actually going to-Whatever. Richie deserved it. And it’s worth it, if Richie doesn’t try to fucking harangue him anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

Eddie only gets a reprieve of a couple hours. He’s sitting in bed that night when he hears a recurrent knocking on his window.

He opens it, sees Richie hanging there, _surprise surprise_. “Go away,” he says, shutting it again.

But Richie keeps tapping, a different tune each time.

He opens the window again. “You’re going to wake my mum.”

“Let me in, then,” Richie says.

Eddie narrows his eyes. _Life is so fucking unfair._

Richie goes quiet as soon as Eddie lets him in. Sits on the edge of the bed way more politely than he ever does. Looking down at his palms, clasped together on locked knees, a foot away from Eddie.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For the lying. And-and for feeling that fucking way in the first place. And I know I can’t ask this, but I’m asking it anyway, Eddie, _please_ don’t tell them.”

Richie sounds like he’s being held together by string, and Eddie feels the familiar twinge of guilt. But anger drowns it out.

“What would I tell them, Richie? That kissing me was your charitable mission for the last year? That’d go over real fucking well for me.”

Richie’s looking at him now. Staring at him, eyebrow raised. “…Charitable mission?” he echoes softly, confused.

“You don’t remember the part where you called me a pathetic closet case?”

Richie gapes at him. “What the _fuck_ , Eddie? I wasn’t-I _obviously_ wasn’t talking about you.”

“Oh yeah?” asks Eddie, incredulously. “Who were you-” He looks at Richie, pale and fidgety, looking at his legs again, and suddenly guilt and excitement and relief and fear are circling him like vultures.

“…Oh,” he says, more breath than speech.

He’s starting to see a silhouette of the truth, and it’s making hope spark in his chest. But he needs Richie to make the edges sharp, make sure he’s not making a mistake again.

Eddie swallows, says, “It wasn’t charity work for me either. It, um, helped. It helps.”

Richie gives him this weak sort of smile and says, “Nah. That was all you. You’re a natural, Spaghetti, you don’t need to practice.” And then he stands up like he’s going to leave.

_Life is un-fucking-believably unfair._

“Kiss me for real, then,” Eddie says, wincing as his voice cracks a little.

Richie sits back down. And looks at Eddie like he’s lost his mind, maybe.

“Unless you think _you_ need more practice,” Eddie says. Because when he’s being defiant, he can’t be nervous.

Theoretically.

Richie opens his mouth and closes it again. He starts leaning towards Eddie, realises they’re too far apart, and shuffles closer. “Clearly I do,” he says, sounding hoarse.

Eddie laughs. And maybe some tears come with it. It’s been a fucking day.

“Eds,” Richie says, brushing a thumb under his eyes to catch the drops. “Eddie.”

 _And that’s just about enough delay_ , so Eddie weaves his fingers into Richie’s hair ( _collar, cheek, hair? Who gives a shit about the rules, it’s all Richie)_ and pulls him into a kiss.

Eddie licks against his lips, and Richie opens his mouth, and he tastes like cola and Tootsie Pops, and Eddie realises, resignedly, that he’s going to get so much second-hand tooth decay, and he can barely bring himself to care.

They tip back, landing on the cool bedspread, and Eddie tugs at Richie’s hair to bring him as close as possible. It’s an ongoing struggle, because Richie keeps pulling back to look at him, awestruck, running his fingers across his cheeks.

 _I love you_ , Eddie thinks, and he might be having a heart attack, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no way this is worth interrupting.

Everything considered, he’s not thinking entirely clearly. That’s probably why it’s not until half an hour later, when Richie’s sleeping next to him, arm flung across his chest that Eddie realises there was something sharp beneath the cola and lollipops.

Eddie brushes his lips against Richie’s. Not with enough pressure to wake him up. Just enough to taste it again.

Fake raspberry chapstick.

_Tastes fucking real._


End file.
